


The Paths that Lead to Home

by MidtownKitten



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Memories, Multi, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidtownKitten/pseuds/MidtownKitten
Summary: In a Westeros finally at peace (for now), Sansa and Tyrion are both trying to find their way in a world that is completely changed - and has left them changed in return. With a dark past behind them and an unknown future ahead, they start together down a path that will take them places they never expected to go, a path that may eventually lead them home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning - Contains descriptions of past violence.

_Shae is screaming. She bites and claws and fights like a wild animal, but he can smell his father’s stench on her and it drives him mad. He wraps his hands around her neck and squeezes, harder and harder still, until the terror in her eyes is gone and her body - her beautiful body - is still. He feels bile rising in his throat as he stares into the face of death, but all he can feel is rage. The guilt and grief will only come later. He is shaking, wailing incoherent words that sound like, “Why, Shae? Why? Why? Why?”_

Tyrion sat up in his bed, gasping for air. The modest room he had been given was freezing, but he was drenched in sweat. No matter how many times he had the same dream, it never failed to leave him shaken. The only way he knew to escape Shae’s screams every time he closed his eyes was to drink himself into oblivion, which he would gratefully have done if not for the meager quantity of wine his hosts offered.

“I fucking hate the North,” he muttered as he forced himself out of bed to remake the fire with shivering hands. He had joked earlier with his brother Jaime that he would gladly give up a hand in return for a half-decent whore and enough wine to last out the month. Jaime hadn’t even cracked a smile. Tyrion soaked in the warmth of the fresh fire as he thought of his older brother. When Daenerys had laid siege to King’s Landing, claiming the Iron Throne and promising death to any who stood in her way, Jaime had been quick to recognize defeat and accept the terms of peace offered. It was a fair pact, one that Tyrion himself had crafted that he knew would ensure the safety and prosperity of the Lannisters for as long as the Mother of Dragons sat on the throne. Cersei of course had been a different story.

There had never been any love lost between Tyrion and his sister. She had been a cruel child who had grown into a cold woman and even now that she was dead, choosing to burn rather than surrender to Daenerys and her dragons, Tyrion felt nothing for the sister who had hated him to the last. He had never understood the bond she and Jaime had shared, but he passed no judgements on his brother and Jaime in return, passed no judgements on him.

Tyrion sighed as he looked out the chamber’s small window. The sky over Winterfell was dark and although he had only meant to take a short nap, he guessed that by now he had missed supper and he was not foolish enough to ask that a meal be prepared just for him. Winterfell extended its hospitality at the command of the Queen, but a kindness given by command was hardly a kindness at all and Tyrion had learned to choose carefully when to wield his favour with Daenerys and when to keep his mouth shut. An empty belly, unfortunately, called for the latter.

A knock at the chamber door caused Tyrion to turn. The peephole was set too high to be useful to him and there seemed to be a great dearth of stools in Winterfell of late - not by coincidence Tyrion felt certain. It was a small inconvenience, not worth making a fuss over, but it was another reminder that wolves would never truly welcome lions in their midst.

“Who is it?” Tyrion called.

A pause, followed by, “It’s Sansa.” Tyrion opened the door and was surprised to see not only Sansa Stark, his one-time wife, now the lady of Winterfell, but also a servant girl holding a flagon of wine in one hand and a tray of food in the other. “You didn’t come down for supper. I thought you might be hungry,” Sansa said.

“That’s… very kind of you,” Tyrion replied. He reached out to take the food and wine offered, but as he did, Sansa moved past him into the chamber with her girl in tow. There was no proper table in the room, but there was a small writing desk with a single chair. The girl placed the tray and the pitcher on the desk and with a quick bow in Sansa’s direction, fairly ran out the door, closing it behind her. Sansa gazed about the room as Tyrion eyed the wine. He desperately wanted to pour some for himself, but there was only one cup and it seemed rude to drink alone.

“This used to be my room,” Sansa said.

“Oh?” Tyrion responded. “Well, it seems we’re destined to share the same bed one way or another.” Sansa turned to look at him, her pale face deadly serious. Tyrion grimaced and shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “A bad joke.” They stood staring at each other for a minute longer, awkwardly close in the confines of the small room, before Tyrion gave up on his resolve to be polite. He crossed to the desk, poured himself a cup of wine, downed it, and then poured himself another. Taking a seat in the chair, he said to Sansa, “My Lady, this is your home and you are free to wander it as you like. So by all means, stay if you wish, but if there is some other reason that you’re here, please - don’t keep me in suspense.”

Sansa looked at the floor then at the ceiling. She seemed to be wrestling with something, but Tyrion could not imagine what, nor what it might have to do with him. Standing in front of him, she looked even taller than he remembered. _No,_ he thought, _Not taller. Older._

“Why have you not proposed?” she finally asked him.

“To whom?” he asked her, genuinely confused.

“To me.”

Tyrion laughed at what he assumed was her attempt at a bad joke, but when he met her eyes, he saw not a trace of humour in them. “My lady, I think we already tried that once, remember? It wasn’t a lot of fun for either of us as I recall.”

“I was a child then,” Sansa said. “A stupid, naive child who still believed in fairy tales. I’m not a child now. Now I know that princes are just monsters in pretty clothes and there are no happy endings. Besides, I hear that the Queen wishes it so and I imagine it’s only a matter of time before she commands it so. Why wait?”

Tyrion regarded her thoughtfully. When she had been a prisoner in King’s Landing, betrothed to his sadistic little shit of a nephew, her family dead or scattered to the winds, he had seen strength in her then and he saw the same strength in her now. Daenerys had never spoken to him of her wishes, but he didn’t doubt Sansa’s information was correct. Sansa had managed to unite the houses of the North under Stark banners and their loyalty to the Iron Throne was tenuous at best. Whoever won the Lady Stark’s hand in marriage not only gained Winterfell, but gained the North too, and therefore, could pose a significant threat. Lannisters were loyal to the throne, so a Stark-Lannister union cut off the chance for a Northern rebellion and ensured peace for the Seven Kingdoms. _It makes such perfect sense, he thought. Why didn’t I think of it myself?_ Then he looked at the girl looking back at him with sad, resolute eyes, and remembered exactly why.

“Whatever you may think of our Queen, I promise you she would not force you into a marriage you do not want,” Tyrion assured her. When she looked unconvinced, he said, “I’ll talk to her myself when my brother and I return to King’s Landing and we’ll put an end to the whole thing. Alright?”

Sansa sighed heavily and Tyrion suddenly recognized in her a certain weariness of the world that he often felt himself. It could be a heavy burden and was one that she was still far too young to carry. “What if I do want it?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Tyrion replied carefully. Her deep-rooted hatred of his family aside, he had no delusions that Sansa desired him, much less could ever love him.

“I’m tired, Tyrion,” she said. “It is my duty to produce an heir to Winterfell and I will do so. Then I can be free.”

“Free to do what?” he asked, a sudden uneasiness forming in the pit of his stomach.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “What matters is the Queen trusts you.” Then after a pause, “And… I trust you. On our wedding night, you could have forced me to lie with you and you didn’t.”

Tyrion gave a rueful smile and said, “You’re much taller than me and I was very drunk. I don’t think I could have forced you to do much of anything.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. He did know. Even now, he could picture her standing next to his fine feather bed, terrified even as she began to take off her clothes, and for a moment - just a moment - he had considered going through with it. She had been beautiful then and she was beautiful now, and Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in the chair as a brief flash of Sansa naked and riding him, his face buried in her creamy breasts, caused his cock to stiffen against his will.

“There’s one more thing,” Sansa said. “I have… scars.”

“We all have scars,” Tyrion replied, pointing to the long, jagged line that crossed his face. Shae had said it made him look heroic, like a great warrior returning victorious from battle and he had liked that idea very much. Now he saw her words and his scar for what they truly were; the cheap flattery of a whore and a gruesome reminder of battles lost and love betrayed.

“Ramsay never hurt my face, but the rest of me… He said that even if I escaped from him, he would make sure no other man would ever want me.” As Sansa spoke, she began to unlace the bodice of her gown. Realizing her intent, Tyrion held up a hand.

“Sansa, please!” he said. “You don’t have to -”

“You should know what you’re getting before you agree,” she cut him off, peeling her long sleeves from her long arms. A few more buttons at her waist, and the gown fell from her body to the floor. She wore no small clothes, leaving her naked before him, but the body he saw was not the body he had imagined. Tyrion drew in a long breath and felt his chest tighten as he took in the burn marks on her breasts, the misshapen, mutilated nipples, the rows of raised pink lines from the methodical cuts of a sharp blade up and down both arms, and as she turned slowly, the deeply marred and discoloured terrain of her back, buttocks and thighs which had clearly been flayed many, many times.

“My…” Sansa paused and a faint blush rose to her cheeks, but she forced herself to continue. “The woman’s parts are all intact, or at least that’s what the maester tells me.”

“Put your clothes back on,” Tyrion said, looking away, his face ashen.

“Your prospects for a good match are limited by… what you are,” Sansa said as she pulled her gown back on and laced it up. “Now I think you see that my prospects too are limited by what I am.” Her voice trembled for the first time when she said, “By what he made me.” Playing her final card, Sansa said, “There’s also your brother.”

“Jaime? What about him?”

“Surely you know about him and Brienne.”

In truth, Jaime would neither confirm or deny the rumors that he was in love with the Lady Brienne of Tarth - or at the very least, was fucking her every chance he got. “Ah,” Tyrion said. “My brother has always been a little short on the details of his personal affairs.”

“Brienne will never leave Winterfell,” Sansa said and the certainty with which she spoke told Tyrion the words had come from Brienne herself. “She is sworn to protect me with her life and she will not break her oath for anyone. If you and I were to marry, you would become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You would need your brother’s council and could rightfully ask him to stay as commander of our Northern forces.” Sansa paused and Tyrion saw the hint of a real smile cross her face when she said, “They could marry if they wish. She deserves to be happy.” Then catching herself, she quickly added, “They both do.” Sansa smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt and said, “I’ll understand if you say no. All I ask is that you consider it. Perhaps after you give it some thought…”

Tyrion finished the wine in his cup and stood from the chair. “I’ll send a raven to King’s Landing at once to let the Queen know we intend to be wed.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tyrion and Sansa were married for the second time in a quiet ceremony in the Godswood behind Winterfell. Neither of them had any desire to relive the spectacle of their first wedding, which had been less of a celebration and more of an open humiliation for both of them in the viper’s nest of Joffrey’s court.

As a wedding present, Daenerys had sent Sansa two beautiful gowns in rich satin, and an elaborately embroidered scarf in the softest blue silk. For Tyrion, she sent a case of the finest wine to be found in the realm - an aged Dornish red - and two golden goblets, one etched with lions, the other etched with wolves. In lieu of a wedding feast, they shared a solemn supper, over which Jaime smirked at him, Brienne glared at him, and after which Tyrion wasted no time opening his gift. 

“Sansa, won’t you join me?” he asked, pouring wine into the ornate cups.

“No, my Lord,” Sansa replied. Then seeing the moment’s hurt her rebuff had caused, she added, “Our queen is very generous, but at the rate you drink, the whole case won’t last the month. You can’t afford to let me start drinking too.” She offered a small smile which Tyrion returned with an incline of his head to concede the point. Then Sansa said, “I think I’ll take a walk, my Lord. I’d like to get some air.” 

“Of course!” Tyrion replied too quickly. “Shall I accompany you? And also - didn’t we go over this My Lord business the first time around? I’m not your Lord, I’m still just Tyrion, agreed?”

Sansa nodded and after a pause said, “If it’s alright with you Tyrion, I’d rather be alone.”

Tyrion watched her from his window as the servants moved his belongings to the Master’s Chamber, which now belonged to him - a desolate figure walking steadily towards the dying embers of the sun. He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, but did not turn. 

“You better pray to the old gods and the new ones that you find a way to make that girl happy, little brother,” Jaime said. “Because if you don’t, I fear you’ll have the Lady Brienne to answer to and I don’t imagine it will go well for you.”

“I gathered that,” Tyrion responded dryly. “For a woman who doesn’t say very much, she certainly manages to get her point across, doesn’t she?” Then cocking an eyebrow in Jaime’s direction, he said, “If only there was something - or someone - to distract the lady’s attention. Any ideas?”

Jaime smiled his handsome smile. “Good night, Tyrion,” he said and left the now empty room. Tyrion turned back to the window, but the dark had closed in and he could no longer make out the shape of the woman he had married.  _ Sansa… My wife… I do want to make you happy,  _ he thought.  _ I just wish I knew how.  _

 

*****

 

An hour passed, and then another with no sign of Sansa’s return.  _ How long do I wait before I have to tell someone my wife of four hours has gone missing,  _ Tyrion debated with himself.  _ And even then - who would I tell? Jaime would laugh at me. Brienne might murder me.  _ Tyrion sighed.  _ I could go after her myself,  _ he thought, but a glance out the window of the large Master’s Chamber into the inky black of the cold northern night was enough to put the idea from his head. Instead he started a letter to Daenerys, leafed through the books he had picked from Winterfell’s dusty library, tried not to finish another bottle of wine, and stoked the fire, adding to the warmth of several other candles burning brightly in the richly furnished room. Surveying the scene, Tyrion had to laugh.  _ Wine, candlelight, a bed fit for a king. How utterly romantic. And how utterly wasted. _

Reclining in one of the room’s velveteen chairs, Tyrion’s eyes grew heavy and he was just about to doze off when the chamber door opened. He sat up and ran a hand through his unruly hair as Sansa walked into the room and sat in the matching chair across from him to remove her cloak and unlace her boots. 

“Pleasant walk?” Tyrion asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Yes, thank you,” Sansa replied.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

Tyrion felt his frustration coming to a boil. “What do you want from me?” he demanded. “You asked for this marriage, yet it would seem you can barely stand sharing my company, let alone sharing my bed! Truth be told, Sansa, I’ve never fucked a woman who hasn’t been well paid for her troubles and I have no idea how one negotiates these situations when there’s no gold involved. What I’m trying to say is that I need your help if this is going to work. I need to know you want to be here.”

Sansa’s eyes glazed over, the fire reflected in their pale depths. She remained silent for so long that Tyrion started to wonder if she had heard any of his outburst at all - until she stood from the chair, her face expressionless, and took off her clothes. The nervous girl he remembered from their first wedding night so long ago had been killed off by the woman who now stood nude before him; a woman who had seen too much and suffered too greatly. 

“How do you want to do it?” she asked flatly.

Tyrion cleared his throat as he tried to decide where it was appropriate to look. “Well… How do  _ you _ want to do it?” he asked.

“It makes no difference to me,” she said.

“Alright… Why don’t we get into bed and see how it goes.”

Sansa seemed grateful to get under the heavy quilt on the bed and once she was fully covered, she lay perfectly still on her back staring at the ceiling above. Tyrion stood slowly and began to undress. Under normal circumstances, he would have had no trouble shedding his clothes and leaping into bed with a naked woman ready to spread her legs for him. But these were not normal circumstances, and Tyrion felt oddly nervous as he climbed on the stool - which had miraculously appeared the moment he became Lord of the Manor - next to the bed, and stood there for Sansa’s inspection. 

“You showed me yours,” he said, attempting a smile. “Now I’ll show you mine.”

Sansa turned her head to look at him in a detached sort of way. She took in the muscular chest and arms, the beginnings of a rounded belly from too much wine, the short legs slightly bowed, and the thick cock dangling from a bed of wiry curls. Tyrion saw her eyes lingering on it and felt it twitch in response. Enough whores had marveled at the little man with the giant cock that he knew his manhood at least was a respectable size, even if the same could not be said for the rest of him.

“I thought it would be smaller,” Sansa said. 

“Most people do,” Tyrion replied, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as he climbed into bed next to her. He thought she meant it as something of a compliment but when he caught her eye, he saw only a grim resignation, and lurking behind that, a trace of fear. He didn’t want to think about the hell she must have endured as Ramsay Bolton’s wife, but there it was between them.

“Sansa, I told you this the first time we were married and I’ll tell you again now because it’s still true - I’ll never hurt you,” he said to her.

She just looked at him for a long moment before returning her gaze to the ceiling. “You can do it now,” was all she said. 

_ Actually, I can’t,  _ Tyrion thought. “Yes. If you’ll just give me a few minutes…” he said, as he took his flaccid cock in hand beneath the quilt and began stroking himself, trying in vain to get the damn thing working properly. It was a rare occurrence for him. No matter how much he drank, his cock could always be counted on to get the job done. 

After a few minutes, Sansa said, “Ramsay had a girl. At first I thought we could help each other… but she turned out to be just like him. Maybe he made her that way, I don’t know. When I no longer aroused him, he would start with her and finish with me. There’s a brothel in the village. You could hire a girl and do the same. I wouldn’t take offense. I don’t expect you to find me desirable.”

Tyrion winced at Sansa’s words. He had enjoyed the pleasures of two women at once on several occasions, but he suspected his experience and Sansa’s were very different things. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. Propping himself up on an elbow, he examined her face. It was like porcelain framed in fire. “Sansa, can I kiss you?” he asked. The question caught her off guard and he saw the mistrust plainly in her eyes. “It would help... with this,” he said, lifting the quilt and pointing down below. 

“If you want to,” she replied. 

Tyrion turned her face gently to his and brushed his lips against hers, parting them ever so slightly. He trailed kisses down her long neck, until pushing the quilt aside, he exposed her breasts and began to kiss them too. He felt her breathing quicken and his cock hardened in response.  _ We may be able to make this work after all,  _ he thought as he ran his fingers up and down her arms, feeling the raised skin of her scars, and then closed his mouth around what was left of a pink nipple. 

“Stop!” Sansa cried out, sitting up abruptly and pulling the quilt tightly around herself.

Tyrion drew back in alarm. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize these injuries still cause you pain. I’ll be more careful.” When she didn’t respond, he reached for her hand and held it as her tears began to spill over. “Sansa, what is it?”

“How can you stand it?” she asked, her voice choked with sobs. “How can you touch me as if I wasn’t hideously deformed, as if it doesn't disgust you to put your mouth on me?” She snatched her hand away and used it to wipe away the wet streaks on her face. “Don’t insult me by pretending I'm some beauty. I know what I am, I see it every day. Whether I’m clothed or unclothed, or with others or alone, I see it all the time.” Sansa lay back down, the quilt pulled up to her chin, and said, “Please Tyrion, just do it and be done with it.”

Tyrion was at a loss for words - yet another situation in which he rarely found himself. Across the room, the Queen’s gifts to Sansa lay untouched on the dressing table. The dark blue silk scarf embroidered with silver threads that danced in the firelight caught Tyrion’s eye and an idea came to him. “You see too much,” he said, as he got up to retrieve the length of material and bring it back to the bed. He folded it over in his hands and then pulled it taut, holding it up in front of her. “Perhaps it would help to see less.” 

Her voice was wary when she replied. “I don’t understand.”

In response, Tyrion moved the makeshift blindfold towards her face and she instinctively pulled away. “You said you trust me,” he said to her. “I’m asking you to trust me now.”

She was unsure, but remained still when he placed the blindfold over her eyes and tied it behind her head. Stretching out beside her, he said, “Let’s pretend to be other people. What if I were not Tyrion Lannister, but … a dashing knight rescuing you from a haunted tower? Or… a village boy, perhaps a shopkeeper’s son? And you are not Sansa Stark, but a village girl, young and carefree. Perhaps you visit the shop when this tall, handsome young man is there all by himself because you want to buy… Let me see..”    


“A hairbrush?” Sansa offered. Tyrion smiled. She was playing along. 

“Yes, exactly! A hairbrush -  but you don’t want a plain, wooden hairbrush. No, you want the silver brush with the ivory handle, except you don’t have nearly enough money to buy it. The boy offers it to you in return for a kiss. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispered and let Tyrion kiss her - a soft kiss that Tyrion deepened slowly, not pushing too hard, only letting his tongue find hers when she opened to him, ready for more. 

Tyrion began to explore her body beneath the quilt with his hands and felt her tense. “The village girl’s body is perfect,” he said against her ear. “The boy can’t get enough of it.” He paused to see if she meant to stop him, but she only licked her lips, waiting. Shimmying down under the covers, Tyrion continued his exploration with his fingers, parting her legs to seek out the hidden jewel that he knew could bring her release. When he found it and applied gentle pressure with his thumb, she cried out. 

Tyrion lifted his head and the blanket with it. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. 

Even behind the blindfold, he could see the battle she fought. She didn’t want to feel this pleasure. She didn’t want to feel anything at all, he suspected. The desire to be numb was something Tyrion was all too familiar with himself. With a slight shake of her head, she permitted him to continue. Tyrion took his time playing with her, eventually bringing his mouth down to the sensitive flesh between her thighs, while his fingers found their way inside of her, thrusting in time with the persistent circling of his tongue. He felt the tension building in her muscles, felt her hard-won orgasm in the spasming of her cunt and the taste of her wetness, but she made no sound other than a gasp; made no sign of pleasure other than a shudder that traveled from her head to her toes. Coming out from under the quilt, Tyrion untied the scarf and let it fall from Sansa’s eyes. 

“I didn’t know I could feel like that,” she said in a small voice. 

“The human body is truly a wonder,” Tyrion replied as he climbed off the bed and began to get dressed. 

“Where are you going?” Sansa asked. 

_ To jerk off before I cum all over our lovely bed,  _ Tyrion thought. “Just need a bit of air myself,” he said. 

“But you didn’t… “ Sansa trailed off, unsure what to say. 

Tyrion looked at her. “Do you want me to?” he asked. She dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. He gave a half smile even as the hurt cut through him like a knife.  _ What if I never want you to?  _ Her words from their first wedding night echoed in his head but he pushed them away.  _ You will,  _ he thought.  _ You will want me to. But not tonight.  _

“Good night, Sansa,” he said and closed the door behind him. 

 

*****

 

Tyrion and Sansa’s days fell into a predictable routine. With her half-brother off leading an army of Wildlings on some mad crusade against the undead, the day to day responsibilities of running Winterfell became Sansa’s and it was a role she took to with surprising ease. Tyrion solved disputes between houses, devised trade agreements that brought new wealth to the North, and maintained regular correspondence with Daenerys in King’s Landing, and with Varys, that old keeper of secrets and spies, in whichever part of the realm he wandered. Tyrion and Sansa started taking the midday meal together, sharing their small victories and challenges and consulting each other on questions that arose. Sansa knew the North better than Tyrion ever would, knew the houses and the people as if they were a part of her. And Tyrion knew the rest of the world - and found in Sansa a curious mind eager to listen and learn. They suppered with Jaime and Brienne and whatever guests Winterfell hosted, and as Tyrion’s sharp wit and endless supply of colourful stories won over the table each night, their evenings became full of wine and laughter.

After supper, Tyrion and Sansa maintained appearances of retiring to their shared chamber together. Sometimes they talked, sometimes he read while she sewed, and sometimes they did nothing, each staring out the window or into the fire, alone despite being together. They developed a sort of code where Tyrion would place the blue scarf on the bed. If Sansa returned it to her dressing table, it was his cue to kiss her on the cheek and bid her goodnight, slipping unseen through Winterfell’s dark corridors back to the small room that had once belonged to his wife. If however, she left it in place, he knew it was her way of consenting to be touched and he would begin plotting who they might be and where they might go when they lay down together.

“Come to bed,” he would tell her. “When you’re ready.” 

He had a screen placed in the room, so she could undress without being seen. He was beginning to understand that although she had bared herself to him when she thought she had no choice, her body remained a source of shame and pain to her now, something Tyrion himself understood all too well. The blindfold helped her escape into the fantasies they created together, letting her forget everything but the way he made her feel, the way he slowly coaxed life back into parts of her she had thought forever dead. Tyrion was patient with her, letting her set the pace and the limits, and was rewarded with new warmth in her smile by day, the first sounds of her pleasure by night, and perhaps most satisfyingly, a true bond of trust growing between them. After a few weeks, he began to sense a responsiveness in the way she returned his kiss, and something else… A readiness. Part of him said to give her more time, but another part - the part that was tired of cumming alone in his own hand every night - said the time to take her was now.

The room was warm and Sansa’s face was flushed from the climax she had just reached by Tyrion’s hand when he turned her over so that she lay on her belly. “Fair maiden wandering in the woods, this hunter has never seen a woman so beautiful,” he said, pressing his lips into the scar tissue at the small of her back, as he nudged her legs apart and knelt in the space between them. “My skill with the bow and arrow is matched only by my skill in the bedroom,” Tyrion fought to keep his voice steady as he rubbed the head of his cock against her opening, “Which I’ll be pleased to demonstrate for you now if you’ll permit me.”

Sansa had known this moment was coming and had thought she was ready for it - but as soon as Tyrion turned her so that her face pressed into the pillow, she felt the panic start to rise. The beautiful forest she had created in her mind became a terrifying tangle of overgrown trees and thorny vines that slashed her skin as she ran from a hunter who transformed behind the blindfold from an admiring stranger into a monster whose face was all too familiar - a monster for whom she was nothing more than meat. Sansa felt something pushing into her and was transported to the first time with the monster, face down as she was now, screaming as he tore into her, drowning out Theon’s whimpers as he watched her virgin body ripped apart. She had thought then that no pain could be worse. She had been so very wrong. 

“Stop,” Sansa whispered into the pillow, but the thing inside her pushed deeper and the hunter’s hands dug into her flesh. Next they would choke her, burn her, hurt her until she begged for death.  _ Fight him!  _ her brain screamed.  _ Kill him so he can never hunt you again.  _ With an incoherent wail, Sansa lashed out wildly, kicking her legs and clawing madly at the bedsheets to get away from her imagined assailant. 

“Sansa, stop! It’s me, it’s Tyrion!” Sansa heard the voice, but she was lost in the darkness, too deeply entangled in the web of memory to find her way out. 

“Get away from me!” she screamed, tumbling off the bed and crawling blindly into a corner. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!”

“Sansa, please,” Tyrion said, reaching for the scarf covering her eyes. “I only want to -” but he was cut off when she raked her nails across his outstretched arm. 

“I hate you,” she hissed. “And I hate myself.” She turned her fingernails on her own face and began to dig them into the skin, leaving deep red marks before Tyrion grabbed her hands from behind and pinned them to her chest, throwing his entire weight into the force of holding her still.

“It’s alright. Ramsay Bolton is dead and you’re safe. It’s alright. Ramsay Bolton is dead and you’re safe. It’s alright… It’s alright.” Tyrion repeated the words over and over until Sansa stopped fighting him and with her legs curled under her, collapsed into sobs that racked her entire body. Tyrion untied the blindfold and held her, helpless to stop her tears or ease her pain. When she calmed somewhat, Tyrion dragged the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around her, then poured her a cup of wine which she accepted with a shaky hand. 

“I’m sorry,” she said to him, her voice little more than a whisper. 

Tyrion sat across from her, leaning against the base of the bed. “Don’t,” he replied. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me for anything. I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have given you more time.”

“I thought I could do it,” she said softly. “I even wanted to do it. I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s alright,” Tyrion said, his tone more curt than he had intended. He felt angry - at himself, at that fucking bastard Ramsay Bolton, at the whole bloody mess of a situation. But it was not anger alone that was making it hard to breathe or that made his hands shake as he began to get dressed - it was some terrible combination of frustration, guilt, and loneliness, and it threatened to overwhelm him as he headed for the door. 

“Tyrion?” He heard Sansa call him, but he could not bring himself to look back at her.

“Take all the time you need,” he said before leaving her to fight her ghosts or demons all alone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Tyrion kept his distance from Sansa for some time. His greatest power had always been in his ability to talk his way out of any problem, but he had no words to heal his own wife and it tore him apart as if he had ingested a poison that was slowly eating right through him. He retreated to his tiny room each night under the guise of feeling unwell and was able to distract himself each day with preparations for the arrival of a trading party from Meereen. It would be the largest envoy to cross the Narrow Sea, after Daenerys and her army of course, and the Queen herself had written to him instructing Winterfell to issue them a warm welcome to the North. Tyrion had never liked the slave owners who ran Meereen, even less so after they betrayed the pact he had made with them when Daenerys had left the city in his charge. After Daenerys’ ascendancy to the Iron Throne, she had made it very clear to them that despite ruling from afar, anything less than obedience and loyalty to the Dragon Queen would be answered with fire. 

With slavery now outlawed by the Queen, the owners had become dubious merchants and traders and Daenerys encouraged them to build new bridges with the rest of the free cities. Tyrion neither trusted them nor wanted to welcome them in his new home, but because  Daenerys asked it of him, he opened Winterfell’s gates to their party and ushered them inside. They arrived with much fanfare, wearing their brightly coloured robes, and bringing many gifts, but Tyrion could feel the scorn behind their smiles and suspected their true feelings would soon emerge from their sweet words, like thorns hidden in honey. He did not have long to wait. 

The banquet given in their honour was lavish by Northern standards, but all that was offered was met with poorly concealed disdain. As the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, the tongues of the Meereenese got looser, until what had started as light-hearted jests, largely at Tyrion’s expense, became pointed invectives, carefully aimed and meant to wound. They had started with the usual jokes Tyrion had heard a thousand times - about his height, about his family’s reputation, about his status as the Queen’s pet - and he had done his best to laugh along, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of getting under his skin. But now they had moved on to cruder jokes that were starting to hit too closely and Tyrion felt his self-control starting to slip. 

“Tell us truly, Lord Tyrion, how many whores have you bedded?” one of them asked. “I heard there was a time when you were a very popular customer at brothels across the realm.”

“Probably because they could make such  _ short _ work of him!” another chimed in and the table exploded with laughter. 

With a tight smile, Tyrion replied, “Yes, although I did pay them well for their services, whereas your poor slaves no doubt had the great misfortune of being forced to fuck you for free.”

“Oh, but that’s all in the past for you now, isn’t it?” the head of their party asked, staring across the table at Sansa in a way that made Tyrion’s skin crawl. “Now you have this stunning creature warming your bed every night.” To Sansa he said, “Tell me Lady Stark - or is it Lady Lannister now? It’s so hard to keep these things straight - I must know, how does a statuesque beauty like you do the deed with… whatever he is?”

“I think that’s enough,” Tyrion said. 

“Really, the mechanics of it alone are mind boggling. And I’m assuming of course, you don’t want to look at him while you do it…”

“I said that’s enough,” Tyrion repeated, raising his voice. 

“Actually, Lord Tyrion, you might do your wife the favour of blindfolding her before you bed her. Come to think of it, I would pay good money to see such a show. I saw an imp fuck a goat for a handful of silver once. I’d pay double that to watch you fuck your pretty wife.”

“Enough!” Tyrion roared, drawing the knife that he carried and driving it into the table.  _ I’ve been here before,  _ he thought as he gripped the knife’s handle.  _ It used to be Joffrey who taunted me, now it is these intolerable cunts from across the sea, tomorrow it will be someone else.  _ “It never ends,” he muttered. He raised his eyes and his gaze collided with Sansa’s. She had been silent throughout the ordeal of the banquet.  _ Probably wishing she was anywhere but here,  _ Tyrion thought.  _ And married to anyone but me.  _

“Please forgive my husband, my Lords. I think the wine has gone to his head.” Sansa stood up and addressed the table with a courtesy so cold, Tyrion couldn’t help but smile. She was truly her mother’s daughter. “We have so enjoyed the pleasure of your company this evening. You have certainly made an impression on us tonight. And the North never forgets.” 

Sansa walked to the end of the table and extended a hand in Tyrion’s direction. Without a word or a glance back, he joined her, and taking her hand, they turned their backs on the assembled crowd and walked out of the banquet hall together. 

 

*****

 

As soon as they were out of earshot of their guests, Tyrion let loose a tirade of curses that made Sansa blush as she hurried him up to the Master’s chamber where she could finally close the door behind them. She leaned against it as she watched Tyrion pace the room. 

“They’re a treacherous lot, they always have been,” Tyrion said. “I’ve never liked them and they’ve never liked me, but to repay our hospitality with such disrespect is unconscionable! They’ll betray the Queen the first chance they get, I know it. In fact, I’m going to write to her to tell her exactly that. And you know, I’m not even drunk - not even a little bit! Oh, I know why you said it. It was good thinking to put an end to that torture, but honestly just being in the same room with those shit eating, slave owning, cock sucking bastards made me lose my appetite. Can you imagine?! Me! Lose my appetite for wine!” 

“Would you like some now?” Sansa asked him, crossing to the table where what was left of the Dornish red Daenerys had sent was lined up, ready to be poured. 

Tyrion threw himself into one of the chairs by the fire and eyed his wife. “I shouldn’t have let them talk about you like that. I shouldn’t have let them talk to you at all. I’m sorry. You deserve better.”

“What would you have done?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, defend your honour I suppose,” he replied. 

“That would have been foolish.”

“I was aiming for chivalrous.”

Sansa handed him a cup of wine and keeping a cup for herself, sank into the chair across from him. “I shouldn’t have let them talk about you like that either,” she said. “The things they said were cruel and they weren’t true.”

“People have been mocking me my whole life,” Tyrion replied. “I should be used to it, but every now and then I let my guard down and it’s always in those moments that the world reminds me that it doesn’t matter what I do or who I am - Hand of the Queen, Warden of the North, none of it will ever change the fact that I am a dwarf. So, even if the things they said were cruel, they weren’t entirely untrue.” Staring into his cup, Tyrion said quietly, “And those are always the hardest things to hear.”

They drank in silence until Sansa stood and disappeared behind the screen. In his earlier fury, Tyrion hadn’t thought about what it meant that she had brought him here, but now that he did, he decided it was time to take his leave. Draining the last of his wine, he stood and made for the door, but the glint of silver thread on blue silk stopped him. He looked at the scarf she had placed on the bed and unconsciously touched his arm where she had scratched him. The marks had faded, but the memory of that night lingered and as he watched Sansa’s willowy silhouette behind the screen, he found himself torn.  _ Do I stay or go? _

Sansa made the decision for him when she emerged naked and over her shoulder said, “Come to bed. When you’re ready.” 

It was the first time she had issued him the invitation he had so often given her and everything in his body demanded that he accept. He undressed and climbed into bed next to her. She was sitting up with the bedsheet tucked loosely around her and was tracing the silver embroidery on the scarf with a long finger. Eventually she folded the material over and held it up. Tyrion reached to take it from her, but she shook her head, continuing to hold it at the level of his eyes. 

“Do you… want me to wear it?” Tyrion asked. She nodded. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. He didn’t know why, but the idea of giving up his sight was suddenly terrifying to him. Then she was leaning into him, the scent of her intoxicating, and he once again felt helpless in her presence as she secured the blindfold behind his head. “Well, alright then, who shall we be tonight?” he heard himself beginning to ramble nervously in the darkness that enveloped him. “Ah, I know - a giant and a wildling princess! You can be the giant of course, it would be a bit of a stretch to put me in that role, wouldn’t it? But then again, giants can be ornery creatures and you of course are lovely so that won’t do. We could both be pirates who meet at sea - wait, are there women pirates? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of any. What do you think? Or perhaps -”

“Stop talking.” Her voice was soft but firm and made Tyrion’s breath catch as the words dried up in his mouth. He felt her weight shift and realized she had planted a knee on either side of him. “Tonight, we’ll just be ourselves,” she said, resting her palms lightly on his chest as he let himself fall backwards into the pillows. 

Tyrion wanted to touch her but some instinct told him to keep still, although he couldn’t help but groan when he felt her hand close around the base of his hard cock. She was hovering above him, letting just the head between her pussy lips, lifting herself off and then lowering herself back down, until slowly, she began to take him inside her. She was warm, but not wet and Tyrion heard the faint whimper she made as she rose off of him to reposition his cock at her entrance before trying again to let him enter her fully.

“Sansa, you don’t have to do this,” he said to her through gritted teeth. In truth, it was all he could do not to grab her slender waist and impale her on the full length of his shaft, but he clenched his fists at his sides and took a deep breath, fighting for control.

“I want to do it,” she replied. Tyrion heard the note of frustration in her voice when she said, “I don’t think I know how to do it.”

“Let me help you,” Tyrion said, bringing his hands to his face to push the blindfold out of place.

“Please don’t!” Sansa cried, but she was met with Tyrion’s dark blue eyes locked onto hers. 

“I’ve seen you,” Tyrion reminded her gently. “I’ve seen all of you.”

Sansa shook her head. “Those men were wrong,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you… Or even that I don’t want you to see me. It’s that I can’t bear to see the look in your eyes when you look at my body.”

Tyrion considered, then said, “I’ll only look at your face. Alright?”

Sansa looked down at her husband. The blindfold pushed back the sandy waves that usually fell into his face and for the first time, she studied his features in a new light - the generous mouth always quick to curve into a smile, the crooked nose, the place in the middle of his scar where the stitches used to close the wound had been uneven, and his eyes. She had seen them dancing with laughter, flashing with rage, heavy with drink, and now, dark with desire. He was not a handsome man, but there was something in those eyes that drew her in and refused to let her go. He wanted her - not with Ramsay’s violent lust, or Littlefinger’s calculated seduction, but with something that was real, something that felt right, something she didn’t want to lose. 

“Alright,” she whispered. 

Without taking his eyes from her face, Tyrion put two fingers in his mouth, then reached down between her spread legs and ran his wet knuckles over her pussy, teasing it open. “May I?” he asked. Sansa nodded and then sighed as his touch began to send ripples of pleasure coursing through her body. Tyrion watched as colour began to seep into her pale skin, staining her neck and cheeks as she arched her back and bit her lip in response to his ministrations. It was only when her eyes fluttered shut and his fingers came back to him slick and sweet with her wetness, that he told her, “Try again.” 

Sansa lowered her hips to meet his and felt him slide easily into place inside her, as if her body had been made to fit him all along. She gasped at the sudden fullness, the strangeness of a sensation that was familiar and new at once. Sitting astride him, she stayed perfectly still and held her breath, waiting. Finally she opened her eyes. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” she breathed. 

“It’s not supposed to hurt,” Tyrion replied. “Take your time, we can go as slowly as - ah!” his words were cut off when she lifted up and then ground her wet pussy all the way back down, taking him in deep, reveling in the discovery of penetration with no pain. True to his word, Tyrion kept his eyes on her face, even as she began to fuck him in earnest, her shifting expressions of concentration, surprise, pleasure and wonder in turn endlessly enjoyable to him. Leaning forward as she instinctively picked up speed, Sansa watched her husband watching her. In Tyrion’s eyes, she saw none of the pity or disgust she had so feared seeing, but rather she saw a man at the mercy of a powerful woman. It was a view she liked very much.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Shae is screaming again, her eyes widening in terror as his hands close around her neck. Tears stream down his face as he begins to squeeze. “Why did you betray me?” he howls as the life drains from her body. “Why, Shae? Why? Why? Why?” Then there are arms around him lifting him out of this bed that reeks of death, arms that are a refuge where Shae’s screams cannot reach, arms that are scarred but strong. Safe in those arms, he closes his eyes, but the arms won’t let him sleep. They shake him, harder and harder, as from far away a voice calls his name. _

Tyrion opened his eyes to find Sansa leaning over him, her brow knitted in concern. He sat up slowly as the remnants of the dream faded away. “Did I wake you?” he asked.

“I woke you,” she replied, pulling the bed sheet up to cover her breasts as she lay back down on her side next to him. She dropped her gaze and said, “You were dreaming.” 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I… dream often.”

“I do too,” she said. Then after a pause, “I’ve heard the story of why you killed her.”

Without looking at his wife, Tyrion replied, “It’s not a very nice story.”

Sansa laughed but it was a hollow sound that sent a shiver down Tyrion’s spine. “I fed a man to his own dogs and watched them eat him alive,” she said. “Do you think I care about nice stories?”

Tyrion did turn then to look her in the eye when he said, “That bastard got exactly what he deserved.”

“What about Shae?” Sansa asked. “Did she get what she deserved?”

Tyrion felt the blade of guilt twisting in his gut. “I don’t know,” he said. 

Sansa sat up next to him and drew her knees into her body, clasping her hands around them. “When I bled for the first time, Shae tried to help me so that Cersei wouldn’t find out. It didn’t work. But… she was kind to me. She told me not to be afraid to share your bed, that you would be gentle… That you had a good heart.”

Tyrion felt his throat go dry, the effort of burying his memories of Shae choking him as they rose to the surface.  _ Wine,  _ he thought.  _ More wine.  _ He was about to get up to pour himself a cup, when Sansa’s next words stopped him cold. 

“She kissed me once.”

He stared at her. “She did what?”

Sansa shrugged, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know how it happened… but it was nice.” Then seeing the incredulous look on Tyrion’s face, she became defensive. “Margaery told me girls in Highgarden do it all the time!”

Tyrion cracked a grin. “If anyone would know, it would have been the Lady Margaery,” he said. His smile faded as he thought of the beautiful Margaery Tyrell and the unkind fate she had met along with everyone else trapped in the Sept of Baelor on the day his sister had burned it to the ground. “She would have been a good queen,” he said quietly. 

“Margaery also spoke in your favour,” Sansa said. 

“Really?”

“Yes. It seems like such a long time ago now, but she told me you were… experienced. She said women were complicated and that pleasing us takes practice. She said you might surprise me.” Sansa shook her head. “I was so naive.” Then with a little laugh, “Perhaps I should have spent more time kissing her.” Sansa bit her lip and looked at Tyrion. “Is it terrible to think such things?”

“No,” Tyrion said, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. He thought of the raven he had received from Daenerys two days earlier and an idea began to take shape in his mind. He leaned back into the pillows, pulling Sansa down with him. “You deserve to know every kind of pleasure there is,” he murmured into her neck. “ And pleasure comes in many forms.” 

“I don’t know what that mea... “ Sansa began, but then Tyrion’s mouth was on hers and her questions were forgotten as she gave herself over to her husband’s experienced hands. 

 

*****

 

The news that the Queen herself would be arriving at Winterfell before month’s end spread like wildfire and the whole house, along with all the other houses of the North, threw itself into frenzied preparations to welcome the Mother of Dragons. Everything was scrubbed from top to bottom, new banners were made and flown proudly from the battlements, rooms that had been closed up for years were thrown open so that light flooded every corner of the castle. Even the baths, normally considered too much of a luxury to fill and heat, were opened and made ready for the Queen and her entourage. As she watched the servants gushing over the overflowing pantries and listened to the excited chatter of the villagers in the courtyard, Sansa was reminded of the warmth that had filled her home as a child. Her parents had been loved by all and had presided over a happy house, always filled with loyal friends, good food, and the love of a strong family. But just as quickly as a rose-coloured memory came, it turned to dust in her mind, as instead of smiling faces, she saw again flayed bodies swaying in the wind, staining the courtyard’s stones with blood. Ramsay Bolton had left a permanent imprint on her body and her home from which she knew she would never be free while she lived. Her feet often carried her to the Godswood of their own will where she silently prayed,  _ Gods, if you exist, let me give them an heir and then let me go.  _

Jon had been Warden of the North when Daenerys had been crowned and it had been he who travelled to King’s Landing to pay the new queen Winterfell’s respects. In typical fashion, he had little to say about her when he returned and it hadn’t been long after that he had ridden beyond the Wall with the Wildling army in pursuit of a demon king that very likely did not exist. Sansa had confided it to no one except her husband, but there were times she truly feared her brother had gone mad. Nevertheless, as the Queen’s arrival grew near, she still wished she had Jon at her side. 

“Sansa?” Tyrion’s voice startled her out of her thoughts. He didn’t usually follow her to the Godswood, understanding it was a place where she went to be alone. But he stood there now, almost handsome in a fine silk tunic, the gold signet of the Hand of the Queen catching the afternoon light from where it was clasped at his collar “The riders have returned. She’ll be here before sundown.”

Sansa stood up and took the hand that Tyrion offered as they began to walk back to Winterfell together. “Will she be riding a dragon?” she asked.

Tyrion laughed. “I doubt it,” he replied.

“Have you ever ridden one?”

“Me? Gods, no! That they don’t burn me to a crisp is generous enough and I don’t intend to push my luck.”

“Who do you think will come with her?” Sansa clearly remembered the last time the ruler of the realm had come to visit Winterfell. She had stood with her family - all alive and well and blissfully unaware of the terrors to come - and watched in awe as they rode in; King Robert giant and red-faced, Queen Cersei full of a haughty grace that Sansa had thought the height of sophistication, Jaime Lannister looking every bit the handsome rogue, and Joffrey, the dashing prince come to sweep her off her feet and make all her dreams come true. It was almost laughable to think of now, but no laughter came when Sansa thought of that time and she pushed the memory away. 

Tyrion considered and then said, “I would guess her Bloodriders, a contingent of Unsullied, a few Kingsguard knights for good measure, her advisors, and her maids.” 

Sansa frowned. “The Unsullied are….”

“Eunuchs. Like Varys.”

Sansa nodded but Tyrion could see she didn’t fully understand. Not that he could blame her - Far from average eunuchs, the Unsullied were a unique breed of skilled warriors, stoic and seemingly immune to frailties like pain and lust. But if what Daenerys said about Greyworm and Missandei - her two most trusted advisors aside from Tyrion himself - was true, then perhaps they were more complicated creatures than he had initially thought.  _ Complicated is good,  _ Tyrion thought.  _ Complicated is human.  _

They walked in silence until they reached the doors of Winterfell. Tyrion kissed his wife’s hand and said, “I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

As he turned to go, he heard Sansa ask, “Tyrion, what is she like?”

Tyrion paused. How to answer such a question? How could he put into words everything he felt for Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? He could tell Sansa that Daenerys was beautiful, powerful, sensual; that she was full of compassion and ambition; that she was magic and mystery and madness all at once. He could tell her that despite being a cynic all his life, he believed in this queen, believed that she would change the world as they knew it. 

In the end, he just smiled and as he walked away, he said, “She’s extraordinary.”

 

*****

 

Sansa tossed fitfully in the bed she should have been sharing with her husband. For the third night in a row, Tyrion had bid her goodnight after supper and retreated with the Queen… to do what? Strategize? Reminisce? Other things that Sansa didn’t entirely want to think about? The Queen was beautiful, there was no question. Despite being a full head taller, Sansa had still felt small in her presence. It hadn’t escaped Sansa’s notice that Tyrion also changed in the Queen’s presence - he became more confident, more relaxed, more himself somehow. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to their relationship than Tyrion was telling her. 

_ You’re being silly, just go to sleep,  _ she chided herself, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she was assailed by images of Tyrion caught in the Queen’s embrace, her long silvery-white hair cascading down around them, his hands all over her body, his beard tickling her thighs, her screams echoing for all to hear as they laughed about the frigid Lady of Winterfell who couldn’t even keep a half-man in her bed. Sansa got up and put her overcoat on over her nightgown. Her slippered feet tread silently through the familiar halls, as she listened for any sign of her husband and the Dragon Queen. 

It was the sound of Tyrion’s laughter that drew her to Winterfell’s library, a room she hadn’t been to in ages. Bran had liked books, she remembered. But she wasn’t clever like Bran. She wasn’t strong like Robb, she wasn’t kind like Jon, she wasn’t fearless like Arya, and she wasn’t sweet like Rickon. Sansa clenched the hand she raised to the library door into a fist and squeezed until the memory of her family and the pain it brought subsided, and she was able to knock without shaking. 

When Sansa poked her head inside the room, she saw the Queen curled comfortably in a plush chair by the fire and Tyrion sprawled on the bearskin rug in front of her. They had several books strewn around them, and seemed to be sharing fruit, wine, and a lively conversation that came to a halt when they both turned their heads to stare at her. 

“Not asleep yet?” Tyrion asked.

“No… No, my Lord Tyrion,” Sansa replied. Even if her husband was on overly familiar terms with the Queen, she thought it best to maintain the proper formalities.

“Something troubling you?”

Something in Tyrion’s tone made Sansa feel certain that he knew exactly what was troubling her. She felt a blush rising to her cheeks and quickly said, “No, my Lord. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She turned to go, but the Queen stopped her.

“You look cold, my dear,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa pulled her overcoat more tightly around her and replied, “Yes, Your Grace. The castle gets quite cold at night. And winter is coming.”

A look passed between Daenerys and Tyrion that Sansa couldn’t quite interpret, and then the Queen said, “I believe some of my ladies and their companions are still enjoying your baths. Why don’t you join them?"

Sansa frowned.  _ A bath at this time of night?  _ But even as her mind protested that it didn’t make sense, her heart began to beat a little faster as something in her grasped the true nature of what might be happening in the pools below them. She glanced uncertainly at Tyrion, who gave her a small smile and simply said, “Go.”

Sansa found her way to the winding stone stairs that led to the underbelly of Winterfell and descended them slowly. The maze-like passages were usually dark and as a child, she had imagined them full of rats and spiders. Now the lamps were lit all along the corridor leading to the cavernous baths and as she approached, she could hear hints of song and laughter… And other sounds that she couldn’t quite make out, but that brought a strange heat to her skin nevertheless. 

When she first entered the baths, she was immediately assailed by the thick curtain of steam that hung in the air. She inhaled deeply and felt her insides fill with a moist warmth. Squinting through the steam, she began to make out the shape of bodies in the pools.  _ Naked bodies,  _ she realized. Intimately intertwined in all manner of couplings, in pairs and in groups, men and women both, light skinned and dark, they writhed in the water like glistening, multi-limbed beasts, their mouths open in ecstasy, their eyes closed in bliss. 

“Lady Sansa?” 

Sansa turned with a start and found herself looking down at the Queen’s maid, a slight girl with big, dark eyes and a head full of dark curls the likes of which Sansa had never seen. She wore a robe loosely tied that did little to hide her breasts from view and Sansa quickly averted her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t meant to intrude. The Queen said I looked cold and I said yes, the castle gets cold at night and she said I should come here. So… I came.”

“Good,” the girl said, with a smile that Sansa could only describe as radiant. “Come.”

Taking Sansa’s hand, the girl led her around the outside of the pools, careful not to disturb any of the congress taking place as they went. The last pool where the girl stopped was partially hidden by a low stone wall, affording its bathers slightly more privacy than the other pools did. There was a man in the pool - dark skinned like the girl, and sitting so still that Sansa thought for a moment he might be asleep. Then he opened his eyes and Sansa felt frozen to the spot as she realized that this naked stranger was staring right at her. And she was staring right back. 

The girl broke the spell when she reached to untie Sansa’s overcoat. 

“What are you doing?” Sansa demanded, taking a step back. 

The girl looked perplexed. “The Lady wants to take a bath, no?” she asked. 

Sansa looked down at the pool and at the man in it. The girl smiled and took a step closer. “You have nothing to fear from him. Or from me.”

Her hands again moved to loosen Sansa’s overcoat and this time, she did not resist, letting the girl slip the heavy material from her shoulders, leaving just her thin, white nightgown. It was only when she lifted the gown and Sansa felt the kiss of steam on her bare skin, that she remembered herself and pulled away. She crossed her arms self-consciously over her breasts, but both the girl and the man already knew what troubled her. 

The girl let her own robe fall to the ground and turned so that Sansa could clearly see the scars that crossed her back and buttocks. Sansa shuddered as the sight before her brought back the terrible memory of Ramsay slowly stripping the skin from her body, delighting in the screams his torture wrenched from her. 

“Who did this to you?” she asked. 

Over her shoulder, the girl replied, “I was a slave for many years. I learned that not all the Good Masters were so good.” 

“That was before Daenerys Stormborn came,” the man said, rising from the pool. As water dripped from his smooth, lean body, Sansa couldn’t help but stare at the space between his legs. His man’s part was there, small and soft, but intact - but where there should have been the twin balls flanking it, there was nothing.  _ The Unsullied are eunuchs. Like Varys.  _ Tyrion’s words came back to her and for the first time, she understood what they meant, what unspeakable act of violence Varys and those like him must have been forced to endure. 

“Now we are free,” the man said, climbing the two stairs to stand at the edge of the pool next to the girl, who took his hand and turned to face Sansa. “When you are free, you are not ashamed anymore,” he told her. “My name is Grey Worm and I am free.”

“My name is Missandei and I am free,” the girl said. 

Sansa felt something in her start to crack. She knew she would never truly be free - not from her body, not from her memories, not from the pain of her past - but for tonight, she could be free from shame, free to take whatever it was this strange but beautiful pair was offering. Before she could change her mind, Sansa pulled the nightgown from her body.

“My name is Sansa Stark,” she whispered, shivering despite the heat. “And I am free.”

The girl named Missandei took Sansa’s hand and led her into the pool, until they both sat with their backs to the stone, submerged to the shoulders. As the water encased her, Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the first time in a long time that she had felt truly warm. Then she opened her eyes and turned to look at Missandei. She saw the kiss in the girl’s eyes before it reached her lips but to her own surprise, she did nothing to stop it - in fact, she felt herself drawn towards it; towards something soft and sweet and unknown that the girl’s mouth promised as it opened to her. It was a kiss unlike any that Sansa had experienced before - a slow exploration that woke her desire and fed it generously with morsels of sensation, demanding nothing in return. Sansa kissed her back as passionately as she knew how, clumsily perhaps, but when she pressed her forehead to Missandei’s and whispered, “Please,” the girl knew she had unlocked something in the red-haired beauty - a door that once opened could never be forced shut again. 

Under the water, Sansa felt a hand on her thigh. She waited for it to move further, but it remained still. She met Missandei’s eyes and the girl shifted closer to kiss her again and again still. Between the moments when their lips met, Missandei said to Sansa, “Tell me what you want.”

“This,” Sansa replied, her voice barely more than breath. 

“Just this?” The hand crept upwards by another inch and though Sansa parted her legs invitingly, it went no further. 

Made bold by need, Sansa reached down and moved Missandei’s hand between her legs, pressing it to that most private place that had been violated by Ramsay Bolton, healed by Tyrion Lannister, and now begged to be touched by the fingers that danced around it. 

“This,” Sansa said, and then gasped as the fingers found their mark. 

Even as she played with Sansa, Missandei turned to look at Grey Worm, still standing stoically at the side of the pool, his face expressionless, his cock erect. 

“And you,” she said to him, her tone gentle and teasing, “Tell me what you want.”

Grey Worm swallowed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. After all his years as an Unsullied, all the training he had endured that forced him to silence his needs and enslave his body to his master’s will, it was still a challenge to allow himself to want, to feel, to accept Missandei’s love and love her in return. But he was learning. 

“I want…” he began haltingly. It was an exchange they had shared before, but one that he still found difficult. Like Sansa, they were not words he had ever been asked to use before. “I want… to be inside you.”

“Very good,” Missandei said, standing up and pulling Sansa with her. Backing Sansa into the wall on the far side of the pool, she said, “Ask and you shall receive.” Neither Sansa, as she let her mouth be captured in a kiss, nor Grey Worm, as he waded into the pool and placed his hands on Missandei’s shoulders, inhaling the scent of her hair, knew which of them her words were meant for, but it made no difference anymore. Sansa let her head fall back as Missandei pressed her lips to her neck, then to each breast in turn, nibbling and sucking, while her fingers worked their way into her cunt, curling and probing until they found the spot that made Sansa’s knees go weak. With her other hand, Missandei stroked Grey Worm’s cock and then guided him into her from behind. She pushed her hips back into him, inviting him to go deeper, and moaned when his arms went around her, cupping her breasts as he began to thrust harder. Locked together, they were past the point of words, their bodies moving on instinct, their only sounds primal and low. 

From where they stood near the door into the baths, Tyrion and Daenerys had only a partial view through the steam of the scene in the pool at the back of the room. But it was enough. 

“I didn’t think it possible, despite what you told me about him, about them both, ” Tyrion said.

“Never underestimate the power of patience,” Daenerys replied. Tyrion gave her a sidelong glance. “And a little luck,” she added with a smile. 

Tyrion wasn’t sure if she was talking about him and Sansa - husband and wife for the second time and on the edge of happiness together despite all odds, or rather Grey Worm and Missandei and their unlikely love story, or if she spoke of herself and the long and twisted journey that had finally brought her to the Iron Throne.  _ Or perhaps the same truth applies to all three,  _ Tyrion thought.  _ In this world, paths to all things can be found. _

_ “ _ Do you still fear for her?” Daenerys asked.

Tyrion sighed. “That’s the trouble with loving anyone, isn’t it? You always fear for them.” He caught the Queen’s eye and they both knew he wasn’t speaking of Sansa alone. 

Daenerys rested a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Tyrion,” she said. “You won’t lose her. More importantly, I don’t think she will lose herself. She knows now what it is to be found.” Giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, Daenerys turned to leave.

Without taking his eyes from the sight before them, Tyrion asked, “Shall I walk you back to your chambers?” 

“No, I’ll be quite alright,” Daenerys replied. “Why don’t you stay a while?” There was laughter in her voice when she said, “A bath might do you good.” And then she was gone. 

 

_ Not tonight,  _ Tyrion thought as he made his way along the outside of the baths, keeping to the shadows, until he could just see past the low stone wall of the last pool. He saw Grey Worm with his face buried in Missandei’s curls, one arm wrapped around her, the other outstretched over her shoulder to stroke the flushed cheek of a woman Tyrion barely recognized as his wife. Sansa’s usually perfectly plaited hair flowed free, damp and disheveled around her. She thrust her scarred breasts forward, seeking Missandei’s mouth, matching the girl’s moans with her own sharper cries which Tyrion recognized as the beginning of her climax.  _ Tonight is just for you. And if you let me, I will make you a world filled with so much beauty and pleasure and joy that you will never want to leave it again.  _

“But I need time,” Tyrion murmured. “Can you give me that?”

“Yes!” Sansa’s sudden cry was clearly in response to whatever magic Missandei was working on her body, but when she lifted her head, opened her eyes, and said again, “Yes,” Tyrion could have sworn she was looking right at him. 

For tonight, it was enough. It was a start. Tyrion backed away from the pool and quietly left the baths, making his way up the stairs to the bedchamber he and Sansa shared, where he fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. 

 

*****

 

_ Shae is laughing. She has never seen snow before. She turns her face to the sky and lets the cold flakes kiss her cheeks,, before she runs to him, sinks to her knees, and throws her arms around him. Her lips are warm, but her eyes are sad. He has a strange feeling that he should know why, but he can’t remember. “It’s cold,” he tells her. “Let’s go inside.” She shakes her head. “I can go with you no further, my lion,” she says. She kisses him for the last time and whispers in his ear, “Your name is Tyrion Lannister. And you are free.” The snow swirls around them and he is blinded by a sudden gust of wind. When he opens his eyes, Shae is gone, a lone candle left burning in her place. He picks it up and it lights a path through the long winter that has come at last, a path that will finally lead him home.  _


End file.
